“I admit the demand for social usefulness, up to a certain point. But, really, I have done my share. The mass of men don’t toil with any such ideal, but merely to keep themselves alive, or to get wealth. I think there is a vast amount of unnecessary labour.”
“There is an old proverb about Satan and idle hands. Pardon me; you alluded to that personage in your letter.”
“The proverb is a very true one, but, like other proverbs, it applies to the multitude. If I get into mischief, it will not be because I don’t perspire for so many hours every day, but simply because it is human to err. I have no intention whatever of getting into mischief.”
The speaker stroked his beard, and smiled with a distant look.
“Your purpose is intensely selfish, and all indulged selfishness reacts on the character,” replied Miss Barfoot, still in a tone of the friendliest criticism.
“My dear cousin, for anything to be selfish, it must be a deliberate refusal of what one believes to be duty. I don’t admit that I am neglecting any duty to others, and the duty to myself seems very clear indeed.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” exclaimed the other, laughing. “I see that you have refined your arguments.”
“Not my arguments only, I hope,” said Everard modestly. “My time has been very ill spent if I haven’t in some degree, refined my nature.”
“That sounds very well, Everard. But when it comes to degrees of self-indulgence—”
She paused and made a gesture of dissatisfaction.